“So... the forge still breathes.”

Vergil steps lightly across the cracked stone, the edge of his coat brushing ash from the floor. His gaze is steady, unreadable.

“I was told this place held a gate—sealed long ago by the blood of Sparda. If that’s true… then I’ve come to claim what lies beyond it.”

A pause. He eyes you—not with hostility, but with the caution one reserves for a threat not yet assessed.

“You're not who I expected to find. But no matter.”

His voice sharpens—cool and final.

“Stand aside, or forge something useful with your time. I have no interest in delays.”

“…Still, if you truly guard this place, then you must know something of value. Speak wisely—before I stop asking.”